Donal looked at the sword. The runes ran red with his blood. But the ruby seemed dull by comparison.
Slowly he reached out his hands. He closed both of them upon the pommel and shut away the ruby from the light of the virgin moon. And then he shut his eyes and emptied himself of the knowledge of who he was.
He needed to know what he was.
—he was a boy again, so small, and listening to his father. Listening to the man who was clan-leader of the Cheysuli, wiser than everyone save the shar tahl, who kept all the histories.
“You are a Cheysuli warrior, a child of the Firstborn, and beloved of the gods. You are one among many; a man who is more than a man; a warrior who serves more than war, but the gods and the prophecy. In you lies the seed of that prophecy, dormant now, but waiting for the day when you will awaken at last and comprehend the tahlmorra of a kingdom. Not of a boy, of a man, of a clan. Of a kingdom, and you will be its king. You will be what no one has been for nearly four hundred years: a Cheysuli Mujhar of Homana. The man in the prophecy.”
Donal opened his eyes. Took his hands away from the sword. The blood-bathed ruby glowed more brilliantly than ever. And when he looked at his palms, he saw the wounds had healed.
* * *
Osric of Atvia, when Donal finally found him, was ensconced in a huge black field pavilion ringed with smoking torches. He was alone. He sat at his table and pondered his maps, plotting new strategy. Four braziers and two tall candleracks illuminated the interior of the tent. Light flashed off ruddy hair banded by a plain gold circlet; it glinted as he absently smoothed the map with a thick-fingered hand. His broad shoulders threw odd shadows on the fabric behind him: black on black. He scratched idly at his heavy, sun-gilded beard.
He was not old. Perhaps thirty, a year or two more. He was a hardened fighter in his prime; Donal knew he faced harsh odds. But he would not turn from them.
Donal stepped into the glowing light and smiled, carrying the sword. Osric, glancing up at the faintest whisper of sound, froze. His blue eyes widened minutely, then narrowed; he did not otherwise indicate alarm or fear. He appeared more irritated than anything.
“Hist?” he asked curtly in his Atvian tongue. But then he saw the sword. He pushed himself to his feet. “You are Donal.” Now he spoke Homanan, accented heavily.
“I am the Mujhar.”
“How did you come by that sword?”
Donal watched him. “You took it from Carillon. I got it back from the boy.”
“Strahan gave it to you?”
“After a fashion.”
Osric was very tall, massive as a tree. Donal recalled Carillon’s description of Keough, Osric’s grandsire, and thought this man must resemble him. He knew himself outweighed badly, outreached as well, and undoubtedly outmatched when it came to deadly swordplay.
“Strahan held you captive, I was told.”
“I was freed. I brought the sword out with me.” He paused. “It is mine, Osric. My grandsire made it for me.”
Osric’s blue eyes glittered. He was so vital Donal could sense the strength moving in the man. “I have heard that sword holds magic. Shapechanger sorcery.” The blue eyes dipped to the sword, then lifted to Donal’s face. “Hale was your grandsire, then?”
“Aye. You see, do you not, I am not an upstart warrior who wishes to grasp at a throne? I have a lawful right to it, Osric. I have blood in me that harks back to the Mujhars of old, and the Cheysuli Mujhars before them.”
“I have the right of conquest,” Osric said. Then, “How did you come through my lines?”
“I flew.”
“Flew?”
Donal smiled. “I am a falcon when need be—or a wolf whenever I choose.” He pulled aside the doorflap. Lorn came into the pavilion silently. “You have chosen a bad enemy,” Donal told the Atvian lord. “We Cheysuli do not sit idly by while you try to usurp our homeland.”
Osric still stared at Lorn. “My grandsire died because of a wolf,” he said slowly. “In Homana, it was—inside Homana-Mujhar. It was whim—a wolf’s whim. It did not slay with tooth or claw—it slew by using fear.”
Donal laughed aloud. “That wolf, ku’reshtin, was my mother.”
Osric’s teeth showed briefly. “No matter. I know the truth of you. Hold that sword if you wish—I know the truth. The Cheysuli have no sword-skill. I do not mind slaying Homana’s shapechanger Mujhar, but I would prefer a better match.”
Donal shrugged. “It was Carillon who taught me. Judge my skill by the reputation of my master’s.”
Osric’s eyes narrowed. “Carillon is dead. I was the one who slew him—as once he prophesied.” He smiled suddenly as Donal started. “Did you not know? Aye—Carillon prophesied our meeting. He told it to my brother, Alaric, when I sent him here some sixteen years ago.” He laughed. “Carillon said—if I recall it right—that if we ever met on the field of battle, one of us would die.” He studied Donal closely. “Carillon’s reputation? Overpraised, I think. As for yours? Let us make one now.” He turned. He caught up his own broadsword from his cot, swung back and advanced on Donal.
The hilt settled comfortably in Donal’s hands. He felt the warmth of the metal. The odd, vibrant life sprang up again.
Osric was a master swordsman. Donal discovered that very quickly. The Atvian’s bulk gave him both superior reach and strength, but slowed down his reactions. Donal was quicker.
He ducked under two whistling slashes that clove the air near his head. He felt their wind in his hair. Still he ducked away, not yet engaging the man. I am no swordsman, for all I boasted to him—there is too much I have left to learn—
Osric needed no lessons. He shattered the edge of the table with one huge swipe of his broadsword and laughed aloud as Donal stumbled back hastily. Teeth gleamed in his sun-gilded beard as he lifted the blade, teasing Donal with its tip. “You are mine, fool. Homana falls as you fall.”
Donal skipped back as Osric’s blade flashed by his ribs. He stumbled over a brazier, overturning it; rolled to his feet as he blocked a blow with his blade. Coals burned his legs and feet, charring the leather of his boots, but he ignored that as Osric came on.
“Homana has stood firm against you for over half a year without me,” Donal pointed out, moving constantly. “What makes you believe the realm will fall do I fall?”
“It is the way of battles involving kings.” Osric struck again; Donal ducked. “Soldiers require leadership, royalty preferred. But slay the king and the army is slain, though most men walk away.” Osric shifted his stance. The sword was a splinter in his tremendous hands. “Atvia is but a small place. I grow weary of an island. A realm the size of Homana will suit me well enough.”
Donal moved back. “After Homana—Solinde? Your present ally?”
Teeth gleamed in Osric’s beard. “Too soon to say, Cheysuli.”
The sword seemed to hum in Donal’s hands. He felt it protest his poor skill, as if it were disappointed by his lack. Donal set his teeth and set up a fence of steel, trying to maintain his ground as Osric sought to batter him down.
He stepped back, back again. The table pressed against his spine. Donal threw himself onto the table in a bid to roll away and gain his feet, but Osric’s sword was in the way. It settled at his throat.
“True,” Osric said. “The Cheysuli have no sword-skill.”
The ruby blazed up and created a nimbus around them both. Osric, crying out, fell back, eyes popping in their sockets. His own sword shook in his hands, but he was too much a warrior to give over to fear so easily.
Donal pressed up from the table. Osric brought his sword down. Blades clashed. The immense strength of the Atvian drove Donal down again. His torn back pressed against the wood.
The nimbus continued to burn. It splashed blood-red light across Osric’s face until his blue eyes turned Ihlini purple.
Donal felt the numbness beginning in his hands, felt the sword cleave to his grasp as if it was part and parcel of his body. Runes glowed white the length of the blade—he swung—<
br />
—Osric’s sword broke in a rain of shining steel.
He stood there with nothing in his hands but a useless hilt. His mouth hung open: a tombstoned cavern in red-gilt hair.
Donal, still flat on his back on the table, felt the sword lift him up; felt the power surge through his arms from shoulder to fingertips. He was lifted; he thrust. The blade slid home in Osric’s belly.
That for Carillon. That for my su’fali.
Donal took back his human form in front of Rowan’s pavilion. As he pulled open the doorflap he met Evan in the entrance. “Osric?” Evan demanded.
“Atvia lacks a lord.” He could still feel a residual warmth and vitality in the sword. The ruby was red against his hand.
“Good.” Evan had shaved; put on fresh clothing worthy of his rank. The stolen boots had been replaced with finer footwear. “You are unharmed?”
“As you see me.” But Donal thought Evan did not see him clearly. There was a drawn tautness at the corners of his eyes and mouth, as if he spoke automatically with little thought for what he said. “Evan—what is it?”
Evan stepped aside and gestured limply for Donal to enter. His hand scraped against the fabric as he let the flap down again. “A messenger came early this morning, just at dawn, while you were still in Osric’s encampment.”
The pavilion was empty. The bedclothes on Rowan’s cot were rumpled. One cup of wine, half-filled, stood on the table next to a pile of maps. A fly buzzed around the rim.
Donal sat down on a stool, hunching a little; he lay the blade across his thighs and fingered the hilt with its rampant lion. “This message was for me?”
“No. For me.” Evan frowned a little. He looked almost bewildered. “My brother is—High King.”
Donal looked at him sharply. “Rhodri—?”
“Dead of a sudden fever.” Evan combed a hand through his dark brown hair. “It took him too quickly—the leeches could do nothing.”
Donal stood up again. He understood the puzzled grief in Evan’s eyes better, now that he lacked Finn. He reached out and clasped Evan’s arm briefly. “I am sorry. Do you ride for Ellas immediately?”
After a moment Evan shook his head. “I would have. At once, of course—I should go home and pay my respects. But—Lachlan has said no. He gives me leave to remain here.” He shrugged a little. “He says—he says all of Ellas knows how I honored my father, and that now I must honor the wishes of her new High King.” His eyes were full of grief and lethargy; his anchor had been taken from him. “He says I must stay with you.”
Donal stared at his friend. His own emotions were detached, as if Finn’s death had drained him of the capacity for grief, but he understood what Evan felt. He has only just discovered how much his jehan meant to him, for all he has spoken casually of their relationship. Donal sat down again. “Why would Lachlan wish you to stay here? I am more than glad of your company, but perhaps you would do better to go home.”
Evan’s mouth hooked down on one side. “He heard of Carillon’s death. Out of sorrow and a wish to keep Homana whole, he is sending five thousand men.” Evan smiled. “The Royal Ellasian Guard…which was, I know, dispatched once before to Homana, when Carillon needed aid. Out of respect for Carillon’s memory, Lachlan wishes to make certain Homana does not fall. But—I think there is more, though he did not say it. I think he fears for Ellas as well. Does Osric take Homana, there is a good chance he will turn his eyes to Ellas one of these years. Why not gainsay that now by sending aid to Homana? He could not do so before—my father preferred to stay out of Homana’s troubles—but now he is High King. He may do what he wishes.”
Donal sighed, staring pensively at the sword. “Whatever Lachlan’s reasons—his gesture is more than welcome.”
Evan nodded. “Rhodri was a worthy king. Ellas loved him. But Ellas also loves Lachlan, the scapegrace, priest and prince who wandered as a harper for three years, riding with an exiled Homanan lord as he sought to win back his realm. He will be a valuable ally, Donal.”
Thinking deeply, Donal scratched at his forehead beneath the thick black hair that hung nearly into his eyes. “Five thousand men may be more than enough to swing this battle to a conclusion. Unless, of course, Osric’s death is enough. It may be that Lachlan’s gift is not necessary. But regardless, I must leave Rowan in charge of the Homanan troops, while you lead the Ellasians.” He frowned. “It would give me time to go up across the Bluetooth.”
“Still you will go?”
“I will. And I will bring Sorcha and the children home—home to Homana-Mujhar.”
Evan sucked in a whistling breath. “Not wise, Donal. Aislinn is already jealous—installing your light woman and bastards beneath the same roof may not be for the best.”
“I do not care.” Donal looked up from the sword. “I am not totally blind to Aislinn’s reasons for what she has done. But there are other factors I must consider. She is Electra’s daughter. It means I can never view her without suspicion—has she not given me enough reason for that?—because it may be that she has a measure of her jehana’s power. For all I know, the Solindish blood in her holds stronger than the Homanan.”
“She bears a child, Donal. Possibly a son, and heir to Homana.”
Donal laughed. “I have no intention of slaying her, Evan! Nor do I wish to beat her. I intend only to put Sorcha and the children where I know they will be safe.”
Evan shook his head. “Do not put her so close to Aislinn. Donal—this is merely jealousy. Once Aislinn has borne her own, she will not resent Sorcha’s children so much.”
Donal shook his head. “For a man who has neither children nor cheysula, you know much about both.”
“I have five sisters,” Evan retorted, “and—at last count—fourteen nieces and nephews. Perhaps more, by now—my sisters breed like coneys. I speak from experience, Donal.”
Donal sighed. “Well, nonetheless, I will go to the Northern Keep and tend to my meijha and children. Then I will see to Aislinn.”
* * *
Rowan gave him a new sheath and belt for the sword, since Carillon’s was missing, presumably somewhere in the Atvian encampment—unless Strahan still had it. But the new one suited Donal’s taste. It was plain dark leather oiled to a smooth sheen, worked with Cheysuli runes from top to bottom.
Donal slid the blade home until the hilt clicked against the lip. He looked at Rowan. “Your workmanship?”
Rowan’s angular face was solemn. “Aye. My blood showing in me at last. I have the Cheysuli skill.”
Donal looked at him in surprise. “Then you are finally admitting openly to your heritage.”
Splotches of color formed in Rowan’s face, flushing the sunbronzing darker still so that the yellow of his eyes was emphasized. “I have not had to deny it for many years,” he said with a quiet dignity. “Not since I acknowledged the truth to Carillon.”
He will judge everything in his life by Carillon. Donal sighed and tried to summon what little he knew of tact. “I know you have never had a lir, but you are Cheysuli. You might have sought a clan instead of the Homanans when you were old enough to know the truth.”
Rowan shook his head. “I did not seek the Homanans, Donal. I was raised Homanan. Oh, aye…I knew what I was inside, but how could I fight Homanan habits that grew to be second nature? A child becomes what he is made…and I was made Homanan.”
Donal frowned down at the rune-worked blade. “We are so different. The races. So—apart. We are different men. And I think you cannot be both.”
“You can.” Rowan smiled a little. “One day, you may see it. One day you may have to. You yourself are less Cheysuli than I am, if we are to speak of blood—and yet you are the one who claims the races are different.” He shook his head. “You do realize, of course, that even though Homana has a Cheysuli Mujhar once more—that the Cheysuli race will not last forever. We will be swallowed up by the truth of the prophecy.”
Donal looked at him sharply. The words, oddly, echoed what Tynstar had
said; what Strahan had emphasized. And Donal did not like it. Somehow, it threatened him. “We have lost nothing in thousands of years. We still claim the lir and all that bond entails. The earth magic that heals, the power to compel—”
“Aye.” Rowan interrupted calmly. “But have you never thought that when the goal of the prophecy is attained and the Firstborn live again, there will be little room left for the Cheysuli?”
“There will always be Cheysuli in Homana.” Donal’s tone obliterated room for speculation. “Homanan-raised you may have been, but not Homanan-born. Did you not set the runes into the leather of this scabbard?”
“Some things a man never forgets.” Rowan looked at the devices he had tooled. “I remember—when I was very small—how my jehan used to write out the runes with a chunk of coal on a bleached deerskin. It fascinated me. I would sit for hours before the pavilion and watch his hand draw the runes—making magic. And the birthlines, when the shar tahl showed me mine.” He smiled reminiscently. “I remembered all the runes. So I pieced together the prophecy and the runes, and put it all into the leather.”
Donal watched the changes in Rowan’s face. In that instant he felt closer to the man than ever before. In that instant, Rowan was Cheysuli, and Donal could understand him. “What else do you remember?”
The smile fell away. “I remember the day the Mujhar’s men came across my family. How they slew them all, even my small rujholla. I remember it all very well, though for years I denied it.”
“Because your new kin never said you were Cheysuli.”
“They never knew.” Rowan shrugged. “They were Ellasian, come to Homana for a new life. They found a small boy wandering dazedly in the forest, unable to speak out of fear for what he had seen, and they took him as their own. They were—good people.”
“But they were not Cheysuli.”
“Half of you is not,” Rowan retorted. “When I look at you, Donal, I see and hear a Cheysuli warrior, because that is what you desire to show to people. You have all the Cheysuli characteristics—including that prickly pride—and you certainly bear the stamp. But you also are Homanan, because of Alix. You should let it temper that pride. Do not become so Cheysuli you cannot understand the people you will rule.”
Legacy of the Sword Page 36
